As we mounted the hill the great shrine had seemed to rise higher and higher above us; in the flaming sunshine the olives looked a pale silver against the deep blue sky. When at last we took the way to the monastery, we seemed to have reached a deserted town. Assisi was still and lifeless; the very inn was asleep. Flies and gnats, however, made us sharply feel that the heat gave them extra thirst, and that we were a boon in this absence of human life.

We had been told that the Lower Church of the monastery is best seen in morning light, so, instead of beginning our pilgrimage with the first chapter of the saint's story, in Chiesa Nuova, at the top of the town, we turned to the cloister of San Francesco, and passed along it to the terrace, on to which the beautiful porch opens.

To-day this porch was full of exquisite effects of light and shadow; near it is Fra Filippo's massive and finely proportioned campanile. The name of the architect of the church is unknown; but it seems fairly attested that the campanile was built by Fra Filippo Campello, who later on became the architect of the church erected by the Assisans, on the site of San Giorgio, in honour of Santa Chiara, or Clara, the first female convert of St. Francis, the foundress of the "Poor Clares."

It is strange that the name of the great architect who designed this beautiful church and monastery should be doubtful, especially as San Francesco is said to be almost the first Gothic church built in Italy, and remains to this day one of the purest and most beautiful in style, free from that admixture of Renaissance work which robs so many Italian churches of the reverence and religious inspiration created by our English and so many French cathedrals. At San Francesco the very walls are sermons in stone; while, especially in the Lower Church, the rich beauty of colour calls out a perpetual hymn of praise.

The offerings made by pilgrims from all parts of Italy at the tomb of Francis in San Giorgio had, in the space of two years, amounted to a sum large enough to defray the expense of building this Lower Church.

We went in by the porch to the atrium; coming from the brilliant sunshine outside, all seemed so dim that we feared we should not make out the frescoes that cover, with mellow, delicious colour, the walls and low vaults of nave and side chapels.

One seems to breathe colour in the atmosphere of this Lower Church; the very air is painted, as light comes in through the stained glass windows, most of which are worth a careful study. There are interesting tombs in this first part of the church, before one enters the nave; one of the tombs resembles in its arrangement Giovanni Pisano's beautiful monument to Pope Benedict XI. at San Domenico, Perugia, but the Assisan tomb is wholly inferior in execution. As we stood looking up the nave, we realised how truly this church embodies the life and work of Francis Bernardone; it is a house of prayer and praise. Its exquisite beauty, both of architecture and colour, inspires the joy so continually preached by Francis, in which he lived, despite his ascetic privations and self-denying labour for the good of souls.

It is impossible to describe, or even to name, except generally, the numberless frescoes which enrich the walls and the vaultings of the transepts and chapels; the golden-starred, blue roof of the nave absorbs the light, but it adds to the mysterious beauty of the church.

Perhaps the first thing that one admires on entering the nave is the richly-coloured cross-vaulting above the high altar, and that between the choir and transepts. There are four chapels on the right, and only two on the left side of the nave; between these two are the sacristies. There can be no doubt that in the original plan these chapels did not exist.

The foundation of the church was laid in 1228; evidently the walls when completed were covered with frescoes by some very early painters, who failed to satisfy the taste of the Franciscans; for one can make out portions of old fresco work near the entrances to the chapels, the wall here having been removed when these additions were made to the original building.

This took place before Cimabue and Giunta Pisano and then Giotto and his pupils came from Florence; followed by the Lorenzetti and Simone Martino, from Siena, to make the basilica the burnished jewel it is to-day. A harmony of blue and scarlet, of green and gold, fills one's sight as one looks onward to the high altar.

We went up to the right transept; here is the famous Madonna of Cimabue. Above the arch of the chapel within the transept is a beautiful fresco by Giotto, of the Annunciation, part of a series by that painter of the Infant Life of our Lord, from the Annunciation to the Finding the Holy Child in the Temple; the figures in these frescoes all tell their own story, and are full of beauty and dignity. The Annunciation over the arch leading to the chapel is especially lovely.

There is also another series of Giotto frescoes on the wall of this transept; in one a child is falling from a window; there are sweet faces among the women who kneel in front. St. Francis meets the child as its body is being taken to burial, and restores it to life. The other two frescoes also deal with restoration to life. Our guide said that one of the faces in these was a likeness of Giotto Bondone. In this Lower Church are many frescoes by Giotto's pupils, notably by Taddeo Gaddi and by Giottino, who have done very fine work on its walls. Within the chapel, beyond the Annunciation, is an interesting series of frescoes, which represent the story of St. Nicholas; these are said to be the work of Giotto's best pupil, name unknown, some of whose work is also in the Upper Church. The truth to nature in the conception, and the simplicity of this master's work, make the study of it most fascinating; its breadth of treatment gives it a peace and dignity which the solemn stiffness of Cimabue fails to inspire.

Giotto must have been young when the Franciscans summoned him to adorn the walls of their basilica, for his work there is supposed to have been completed in the early years of the fourteenth century, and he was not born till 1265.

It is well known how the great artist Cimabue, on his way from Vespignano, a village some miles north of Florence, found among the hills a shepherd lad of ten years old, named Giotto Bondone, sketching on a bit of stone, and how the great Florentine was, on close inspection of the sketch, so impressed by the truth to nature shown in the boy's likeness of one of his sheep, that he thenceforth adopted Giotto as his pupil, and took him to Florence, where for ten years the youth worked in Cimabue's atelier.

It is strange that the painter should have so greatly admired the simple love for and the truthful rendering of nature which characterises his protÉgÉ's work, for Cimabue himself clung to the stiff drawing and unlovely ideals of Byzantine art, overlaid with gold and jewels. The most striking feature in Giotto's work is the life-likeness of his figures and faces and their surroundings; and the natural and simple way in which he portrays action. The faces are seldom as lovely as those of the Sienese painters in this church, but there is no exaggeration about Giotto. Ruskin says "his imagination was exhaustive without extravagance."

At Assisi one seems to trace his progress from these early paintings in the right transept, to the very excellent series on the Life of St. Francis in the Upper Church. Time has probably lent its mellowing help, but the rich yet soft harmony of colour is beyond the power of word-painting,—it takes complete possession of the gazer.

The left-hand transept contains the chapel of San Giovanni. The Franciscans confided its adornment to Pietro Lorenzetti of Siena, who covered the walls with scenes from the Passion. The colour is rich and remarkable, but the design is frequently exaggerated. In the fresco of the Crucifixion, however, the figures beneath the cross are beautiful, especially those of the Madonna, of St. John the Evangelist, and St. Francis.

Another very interesting chapel, also on left side of nave below the grille, which at great functions is closed, dividing the nave from the transept and the high altar, is that dedicated to St. Martin, filled with lovely frescoes by Simone Martini of Siena, representing the life and miracles of Martin of Tours. The faces and figures are delightful, so is the colour; the story of the saint is admirably told.

There are also beautiful frescoes by Simone Martini, or Simone Memmi, as this Sienese painter is often called, between the entrances to the chapels of the Sacrament and that of St. Mary Magdalene. Many others by Giotto and his pupils are in the various chapels.

When we had looked at some of these, we went back to the high altar, and, standing there, beneath that glorious vaulting overhead, we found it difficult to realise that we were actually on the place so filled with memories of the three great revivalists of purity, for in their respective generations Francis Bernardone, Dante, and Giotto strove to regenerate Italy.

After a while, as one stands gazing at the great lunettes overhead, one can picture the two friends, Dante and Giotto, on the space now occupied by the high altar,—the imagination of the poet aiding the skill of the painter to perpetuate the teaching of the Spouse of Poverty.

The tomb of St. Francis is in an open crypt below the high altar; this crypt is called by the Assisans the Third Church; the neighbouring peasants frequently attend the early mass celebrated here.

Owing to the care with which Brother Elias, who succeeded Francis as Vicar-general of the Order, secreted the urn containing the remains of the saint, they were not discovered till the year 1818. A tradition had been circulated, and was firmly believed in, that a third very beautiful church had been built underground, and contained the body of the founder.

This successor of Francis, Fra Elia, was doubtless proud and ambitious; his grasping worldliness and irreligion greatly injured the repute of the Franciscan community, but in this special case he acted wisely. Perugia had determined to possess herself of the precious body, which drew pilgrims from all parts of Europe to make offerings at its shrine; Elias knew this, and therefore, when the basilica was completed, and the saint's remains were removed from their tomb at San Giorgio to the new church, he buried them secretly, and surrounded them by a strongly cemented underground wall of masonry, which effectually baffled all attempts to discover them, though the Perugians made several attacks on Assisi for that sole purpose.

In 1818 the Assisans made a more skilful and sustained excavation. At the end of two months, spent in piercing the rock on which the church is built, and the solid wall of masonry which seemed part of the rock itself, the urn was discovered. The excuse for Elias is that he considered the presence of the saint's body to be the honour and glory of the city of Assisi, to say nothing of the wealth accumulated by offerings at the shrine.

Overhead is the culminating glory of the church, the frescoes on the four central lunettes of the vault, sometimes considered to be Giotto's finest work at Assisi. They represent, in allegory, the poverty, the obedience, and the chastity enjoined by the saint, and embodied by him in the rule of his Order. The fourth spandrel represents St. Francis in Glory.

Probably the poet and the painter stood together on this very spot. Tradition says that Dante aided his friend in the conception of these grand designs. The marriage of Francis to the Lady Poverty seems to prefigure the lines in the Paradiso, for Giotto had finished his work at Assisi before those lines were written.

In the next compartment, a monk, a nun, and a lay-brother of the Order are seen taking the vow of chastity; they are supposed to represent Bernard di Quintavalle, the wealthy noble who became the first disciple of St. Francis; Santa Chiara, who wears the robe of the Second Franciscan Order; the lay-brother, in a Florentine garb, is thought to be Dante. The Virtue, guarded by angels, looks out from a tower above. There are many other figures, mortals, angels, and demons, who indicate in various ways the constant struggle and mortification attendant on the Franciscan calling. Some of the angels with beautiful faces are busily engaged repelling the spirits of the world, the flesh, and the devil, who strive to tempt the neophyte, a naked youth who is being baptized by two angels in a font in middle distance. The good angels hurl the devils over the rocks into depths far below.

The third fresco, Obedience, is also full of allegorical figures, and the Virtue wears the Franciscan robe. The fourth fresco shows St. Francis in Glory, surrounded by throngs of fair-haired angels, who sing hymns of perpetual praise. The truth to nature in these figures is remarkable, some of the faces are beautiful.

One might fill many pages with detailed descriptions of the frescoes on the walls and vaulting of this gemlike church. It takes several days even to see them, and therefore it is wiser to spend some time in Assisi, so as to examine them in their best light.

So wonderfully picturesque is every part of this Lower Church, that it is very difficult to give any idea of such a storehouse of early Italian art, for both Upper and Lower Churches seem to have been a rallying-ground for Giotto and his pupils, for the early Sienese masters, and for others following after Cimabue, Giunta Pisano, and the very early painters of Italy.

Fra Antonio, the sacristan, was a most kind and intelligent guide: pointing out to us the portrait of Francis, attributed to Giunta da Pisano, he took us into the sacristy, and let us see strips of old embroidery mounted on frames. The faces in this embroidery were beautifully rendered, and the colour was delightful. The Fra told us that some English ladies from Perugia had so greatly admired the old lace in the vestiary that he felt sure we should also like to see it; among it was some very fine point de Venise, used to trim surplices. I forget how old he said it was; some of the vestments were exquisitely embroidered.

Then he opened a door, and we saw the quaintest little cloister, surrounded by the grey convent walls; the garden, in its grass-grown quadrangle, was seemingly left to itself. We spied out rosy cyclamen blossoms dotted among the grassed hollows of the rough ground, and our kind Fra, tucking up the skirts of his cassock, for at San Francesco the Franciscan habit is not worn, the conventual garb takes its place, stepped into the quad, and gathered a bunch of blossoms, which he presented to me, with tufts of maidenhair fern from the low wall of the cloistered garden. He asked my companions to come and dig up roots of both cyclamen and maidenhair.

"The Signori may as well have them," he said, with a sigh, "as those who set no store by them."

He was very kind, but we wondered what St. Francis would have thought about the change of costume and the comparative comfort of these guardians of his burial-place.

We went back into the basilica, and up a staircase which led to the east end of the Upper Church, built some twenty-one years after the Lower one. It is a beautiful and graceful example of early Gothic. The Pope's chair, near which we entered, is in red marble; the high altar at that time was surrounded by a screen, mass being no longer said there.

Cimabue and other old painters have covered the walls in this part of the Upper Church with frescoes, many of them grand and impressive in design, though they have greatly suffered from so-called restoration by unskilful hands, while damp has damaged others. Some of the subjects are from the Old Testament, others from events in the life of our Lord; the general effect is, however, rich and harmonious. The long series taken from the life of St. Francis, along the lower part of the nave, is very interesting. There are twenty-eight subjects, chiefly painted by Giotto; the rest are said to be executed by that pupil of the Florentine master who painted the legend of St. Nicholas in the Lower Church. Giotto's fine series in this Upper Church portrays the saint's history, and contains, I believe, the best work executed by the artist in the basilica; it is much later in date than some of his other Franciscan frescoes. The painter is said to have taken as his guide Father Bonaventura's Life of St. Francis. As this writer was born during the lifetime of Francis, and was later on commissioned to write the saint's Life, his narrative may be considered reliable. The painting of the various scenes is masterly, and the detail in the interesting events here depicted, the architecture especially, is rendered in a very striking manner.

These frescoes are so lifelike, that they stamp yet more strongly into the mind the impression created by a visit to Assisi, the truth of the wonderful conversion and subsequent life of Francesco Bernardone.

One of the most striking incidents in this conversion is illustrated in the fourth fresco of the series, in which the saint is shown praying before the crucifix in San Damiano. Those who have read the beautiful Vie de Saint FranÇois d'Assise, by Monsieur Paul Sabatier, will understand the meaning of this fresco, though it has been so sadly injured by damp. For those who have not enjoyed this privilege a short sketch of the saint's life is here added.

Francis Bernardone was born at Assisi in 1182, his father being a rich merchant called Pietro Bernardone. His mother, Madonna Pica, is said to have been better born than her wealthy husband, who travelled, according to the custom of the time, from one city and castle to another, journeying sometimes as far as France, with his company, and the goods he had to sell. He does not seem to have taken Francis with him; he preferred that the youth should remain at home, and use his singular power of making friends among the wild and dissolute young nobles of Assisi.

Now and again Pietro would ask for his son's help in his warehouse, but this was seldom. He wished the young fellow to distinguish himself among these prodigals, and therefore gave him liberal means, so that he might join in all their sports and amusements, in their banquets and night revelries.

The whole world of this period seems to have abandoned itself to every form of sin and pleasure. There was no discipline, no self-restraint to be found; might meant right. Self was everywhere worshipped, especially among the nobles and the wealthy.

Francis and his companions did not lack bravery. They joined the Assisan troops in resisting an attack made by the rival and far more powerful city of Perugia; the Assisans were defeated, and Francis, with some of his friends, was for months imprisoned in a Perugian dungeon. This gave him leisure for reflection.

Soon after being liberated, he fell ill of a fever, and could not return to his former life. He had already begun to see it with new eyes, and during his slow recovery fell into a strange melancholy; rousing from this, he decided to lead a military life. He would, he told himself, perform daring feats of valour; so, when a very distinguished knight asked him to take service with the Pope's troops, then warring in Apulia, Francis eagerly accepted the proposal.

The night before the two friends started, Francis dreamed that he saw his father's warehouse, usually stored with bales of silk, and gold and silver stuffs, filled with lances and military accoutrements both for men and horses. He awoke in great delight. He considered this dream a good omen for the success of his expedition, and rode joyfully next day to Spoleto. A version of this dream is given on fresco No. 2, by Giotto, in the Upper Church. At Spoleto his fever returned, and he heard a voice telling him he had completely mistaken the meaning of his dream, and that he must at once return to his father's house. Francis obeyed, but on his return his father and his fellow-citizens were disgusted by his apparent cowardice in turning back.

Francis had always been charitable to the poor, flinging liberal largesses to them as he rode about the country, sumptuously dressed and with his horse richly caparisoned; he now awoke to the conviction that the poor and suffering were his fellow-creatures, and merited a more personal and tender treatment than he had bestowed on them. Hitherto he had so dearly loved his gay companions, that he grudged every moment spent away from them; he even hurried over meals with his father and mother, so that he might the more speedily rejoin his frivolous friends. Now, after his return from Spoleto, he often went to a grotto, in a wood near Assisi, and prayed there; he saw less and less of his companions, he even sold some of his rich clothing that he might have more to give to the poor. In his father's absence he would clear the table of all food left on it, and give it among his poor friends. He had always been extremely dainty and fastidious in his habits and tastes, and he especially shrank from contact with any of the numerous lepers who, since the return of the Crusaders, had become a plague along the high-roads of Europe. One day he met a leper, and, after giving him an alms, turned abruptly away; on reflection, this seemed to him cruel and uncharitable. Soon afterwards he paid a visit to the lazar-house, spoke kindly to the inmates, and gave each leper a special alms, kissing their hands as he did so. More than once, when he met a poor man and had not a coin with him, he would bestow an article of his own clothing on the beggar.

His gay friends became greatly troubled at his changed behaviour. They dearly loved his sweet, fearless nature, and his winning charm of manner. They could not spare him from among them, for they looked on him as their leader.

They reproached him with his absence, and implored him to return to them. Francis announced that he was going to give them a banquet, and did so; there was every possible luxury, the table was magnificently decked, and he was chosen lord of the feast. But though he was cheerful, he was quieter, less full of wild revelry than he had formerly been, and when they all left the feast, instead of leading his companions into the streets of Assisi, as he had formerly done, he lingered behind, till they had to retrace their steps so as to join him.

They asked what ailed him;—was he thinking of marriage?

He remained silent awhile, then he said:

"You have guessed rightly: I intend to espouse that most beautiful of brides, the Lady Poverty. No longer will I waste my time and dissipate my substance on follies."

They stared in unbelief, then they treated it as a jest, but when they found he was in earnest, they jeered at their idolised leader.

When Pietro Bernardone learned that Francis had broken with his former associates, he became furious. Already greatly angered by the report of his son's visits to the lazar-house, and by other instances of the young fellow's charity, he could not pardon this public act of folly.

So long as his son shared the pursuits of the dissolute nobles who had so greatly admired him, so long as he was to be found in their company, the arrogant, purse-proud merchant, keenly desirous to better, as he considered, his son's position in the world, had been lavish of his money to the spendthrift; though even in those wild days instances are recorded of the younger Bernardone's goodness to the poor and suffering.

He therefore sent for Francis.

"You are welcome," he said, "to spend my money as you please, even to the half of it, provided you spend it in the company of noble lords, so as to bring you, in return, praise and honour. I covet for you distinction, and you well know that it can only be gained from the world; not one soldo will I give you to bestow on vile lepers, or on churches and priests. You are idle, I hear; you spend all your time in praying."

This tyranny greatly troubled Francis, though it seems to have helped his inward convictions by turning him more and more from the temptations to worldliness.

From this time forth the young fellow's domestic life became a daily martyrdom, except when his father was absent for weeks together in pursuit of business. But on Pietro's return he always began to persecute his son. This, joined to the mental suffering endured by Francis in his struggle after truth, had greatly affected the young convert's health.

Outside the Porta Nuova, in the midst of a wood, was the little ruined church of San Damiano, served by one poor priest, who dwelt in a miserable hermitage beside it. Francis had made acquaintance with this priest, who, on his side, was hospitable to the friendless youth, for not only his former companions, but the Assisan citizens sided with his father in condemning Francis's behaviour. Frequently the younger Bernardone would spend all night on his knees in the old church of San Damiano.

He was one day kneeling here in prayer when he heard a voice calling him. He listened, and heard it distinctly bid him seek a closer walk with God; it told him henceforth to devote himself to the restoration of God's ruined houses in Umbria. At that time, owing partly to the continual warfare and brigandage under which the country groaned; also to the frequent visitations of the plague, which carried off so many monks who tended the stricken hospital patients, some religious houses were almost bereft of their inmates, very few monks were left to repair and keep in order the churches and chapels of Umbria, and many of these were therefore sadly dilapidated.

Francis felt transported out of himself, his doubts and difficulties seemed to vanish before this direct call from heaven. In his religious fervour he resolved to quit his father's house, now a scene of daily persecution. He would in future devote himself to the building up of ruined shrines, and he would begin with the chapel of San Damiano. In a fresco by Giotto in the Upper Church, Francis is seen kneeling before the crucifix listening to the voice. The crucifix still exists, but it has been removed from San Damiano to Santa Chiara. A part of this fresco is almost obliterated by damp. Perhaps the most interesting fresco of the series is that in which Francis renounces the world before the bishop and the people of Assisi.

After he had vowed at San Damiano to devote himself to the reparation of ruined churches and shrines, he remembered that he had no money wherewith to begin his labours. The remarkable gift he possessed, decision of character, now impelled him to put his resolve into instant action.

He hastened back to Assisi, made into a bundle some rich stuffs, his own property (not, as has been said, goods belonging to his father), then, bent on speedily repairing the fabric of San Damiano, Francis rode off along the valley, to the thriving commercial town of Foligno, only a few miles away. In the market of Foligno he sold all he possessed, even the horse he rode, with its trappings, and joyfully returned on foot to San Damiano, with a bag full of money.

The arrogance and avarice of Pietro Bernardone were known throughout the country-side, his quarrels, too, with his son's new ideas were by this time public property; so that, when Francis toiled joyfully up the hill to the chapel, and offered his bag of money to the priest, the good man refused to accept it, warning the young enthusiast that such a gift would greatly anger the rich merchant, his father. At this refusal Francis flung his purse into the window nook of the chapel, and, turning to the priest, begged him to feed and lodge him in his humble dwelling.

Pietro was at home, and after a while became anxious at his son's continued absence; he went to look for him at San Damiano. Francis, however, guessing at his father's anger, had already found a safe hiding-place in the wood. When he heard Pietro's fierce reproaches, he trembled; he then termed himself a coward to prove thus unworthy of the call he had received.

He resolved to go back to Assisi, and announce to his father his choice of a vocation. His long mental struggle, his nights spent in prayer and fasting, his weeks of severe discipline, had greatly changed his appearance; his clothing was soiled and torn, his face pale and emaciated. When he trudged into Assisi, the town children failed to recognise him, and, excited by the sight of this strange beggar, they surrounded him, crying out, "A madman, a madman!" throwing stones at him.

The outcry called his father to his house door; he saw and recognised his son. The furious merchant seized Francis by the collar, dragged him into the house, which stood on the site of Chiesa Nuova, and, after a severe flogging, flung him into a cellar. Here the young ascetic was rigorously imprisoned till Pietro again left home for one of his business journeys.

He had no sooner gone than Madonna Pica released and tried to comfort the son she so dearly loved. Francis soon bade her adieu, and returned to San Damiano.

But when Pietro came home again, and found his son absent, it is said that he gave his wife a beating before he hurried off to the ruined chapel in the wood.

This time Francis did not try to hide himself; but when his father, in a torrent of reproaches, told him he must quit the country, because he had brought such disgrace on his family, the young fellow respectfully answered:

"Henceforth God is my only Father; I cannot obey any other."

Pietro again broke into furious accusation. He had lavished a fortune on Francis, he said, and this was the return he got for it.

For answer, his son pointed to the bag of money which still lay in the window nook.

Bernardone eagerly seized it. He swore that he would appeal to the justice of the law to punish his son.

He did appeal. Francis was cited to appear before the magistrate. He refused to obey the summons; he had put himself, he said, under the protection of the Church.

When Bernardone heard of this answer he appealed to the Ecclesiastical Court; but the Bishop's answer to the angry father was a warning. He said that if Pietro really wished to punish his son for being good and pious, his only resource was to persuade Francis to give up all claim to his patrimony, or he could, if he chose, disinherit him.

Francis was summoned to the Bishop's palace, on the Piazza Santa Maria Maggiore. He found the place thronged by the excited citizens of Assisi. The Bishop, at that time well disposed towards the young fellow, advised him to end the quarrel with his father by renouncing all claim to his inheritance.

When Francis heard this counsel, his face beamed with joy. He stripped off his clothing, rolled it into a bundle, and laid it and the few coins he still possessed at the feet of the Bishop. He then turned to the wonder-struck citizens of Assisi:

"Mark all of you," he said, "I have given back my possessions to Pietro Bernardone; I once called him father, hereafter I address myself altogether to our Father which is in Heaven."

Pietro pushed forward; he snatched up the money and the clothing.

This drew a loud murmur from the Assisans, for the rich merchant's arrogance and avarice had alienated his fellow-townsmen; he had grown to be unpopular.

The compassionate Bishop at once flung his own cloak over the youth's shivering shoulders; his charity drew forth a pitying chorus of approval. The people, who had hitherto despised Francis as a fool, saw him suddenly in a new light; they marvelled at this singular proof of self-abnegation.

Thus the first-fruits of his mission were reaped from the impression created in many of these bystanders, who during the past two years had scornfully witnessed and mocked at his good deeds and his devout life.

The reality of the scene represented in this fresco is marvellous; it at once tells its own story. The compassionate Bishop puts his cloak round the naked youth, who holds up his hands in the act of renunciation, while the stern-looking Pietro bustles forward to snatch at the money and clothing, and also apparently to strike a blow at his son, but is held back by a wealthy-looking fellow-citizen in an ermine-lined cloak and tippet.

In another fresco Francis is preaching to the birds at Bevagna; in another we see the arid summit of La Vernia above the Casentino valley, where, in his later years, he is said to have received the Stigmata. Another fresco full of beauty and interest is called "The Mourning of the Nuns of San Damiano." It shows how, after the saint's death, his body was carried past the convent of San Damiano, on its way to sepulture at San Giorgio; the saintly Clara had been for some years Abbess of the little convent in the wood, and she and the Poor Clares, her Sisters, wept over the body of their beloved founder.

These frescoes, and the thoughts they recall, are deeply interesting, and yet the Upper Church is not so delightful as the Lower one is,—at least, we did not find it so fascinating, although, in addition to the frescoes, the painted windows are full of beauty; there is rather too much light; one misses the rich mellowness of atmosphere which fills the Lower Church with a dim mystery of splendid colour, especially one misses the work of the Sienese painters.

The way to La Vernia, judging by the fresco, must have been terribly rugged. The favourite resort of St. Francis, when he retired from the distractions of life at La Portioncula, to give himself more fully to prayer and contemplation, was Le Carceri; the cells are still to be seen in a ravine on the side of rugged Monte Subasio, some way north of San Damiano. Le Carceri is a series of caves in the solid rock, containing the monks' cells; it is backed by a wood, and has the hill torrent before it. The walk there from Assisi is full of beauty, and it is not a very long way from Piazza Nuova, leaving Assisi by Porta Cappucini. Here the saint had frequent talk with the birds in the woods near Le Carceri; the ilex tree is still shown on which the winged disciples perched while Saint Francis talked with them.

OUTSIDE
SAN FRANCESCO